Little Casita

As many of you know, Phil and I live in a little casita in Boise, Idaho.  Saying “little casita” would generally be redundant, as –ita is a dimunitive ending signifying smallness.  But here, “little casita” is appropriate.  Phil and I, and Aussie, live in about 400 square feet of love…and sometimes aggravation as we figure out how best to live in that space together with all of our strengths and stubbornness and endearing quirkiness.  As many of you also know, Phil is a brilliant designer of just about anything he can think to draw or improve.  So we often dream about the house that we want to build—straw-bale, off the grid, with lots and lots of shelves for books. 

I used to think of a house as a cool place for me to live.  Of course, it would have charming character, just as I do.  The decorations of my home would be a reflection of my travels through the world and through stages of my own growing.  But the house was just a case, really, for all of my stuff.  And as I moved so often, wonderfully living in many different apartments and houses in many states, my shelter, charming though it always was, was shelter.

I am different now.  And I want a house that is as much a reflection of me, of Phil, of us, as the paintings and collections that fill the walls inside. And now, having a house that is a reflection of our life seems so much more possible than it did when I was twenty-two and wandering. Carl Jung says that the house is the symbol for the self in our dreams.  As I remember by subconscious self, can I not in the waking world as well?!

In Cuernavaca, I walked through the Robert Brady Museum, which is the house he lived in while alive and which he decorated with folk art of Mexico along with fine art (I hate that distinction, but…) of the Mexican muralists, Marsden Hartley, and others. Walking through, I dreamed of the house that is still fermenting in Phil’s and my imaginations, and I thought I would share a few elements of the Brady House I want to see in my own house.  I will throw a little art history in there, too, ‘cause that’s what I do.

I want sunken rooms.  Sunken rooms are enchanting. They remind me of the sunken courtyards of mesoamerican plazas.  The sunken courtyard was often a large plaza for public congregation around ceremonial rite, and sometimes the sunken courtyard was private and centered around domestic ritual (ruled by women). Breaking bread with friends (whether cooked or brewed) is my ceremonial rite.

In terms of sacred cosmology, in which architecture is a man-made reflection of what the gods have created in the cosmos, the sunken courtyard is an immediate reminder of the underworld and so the eventual death encountered by every living thing.  As I enter my forties, I am most likely not staring death in the nose, but it is closer to me than it has been before (not counting the time I almost fell out the back of Matty's Mustang) and I would like to cultivate this relationship before it startles me.  

I also love the idea of joining several sunken rooms so that when you walk through the house you are consistently moving up and down, like those traveling the pilgrimage Avenue of the Dead at Teotihuacan.  I think it is a perfect reflection of my love of Mesoamerican ruins and Phil's love of the Boise foothills (really, mountains in general).

Oh, how I love the idea of descending into the bath rather than climbing over the side of it.  It would be like sinking into the cenotes of the Yucatan.  Cenotes were, and still are in many cases, sacred pools/sinkholes, foundational markers for Maya cities on a peninsula with very little access to fresh water, and locations protected by the Ix Chel, in the past, and the Virgin, in the present.  Probably a bitch to clean, but then, who am I kidding?! We don't clean our tub :) We can have the beer cooler, claw foot tub long enough to encase a supine Phil and we can have the sunken bath.  Is that too indulgent?!

I also love the use of doors as windows, with smaller doors inside. And I love odd shaped windows.  I know that square windows, rectangular windows are more practical as they are more universal, but why should our windows not be as unique as we are?!  Phil and I are two round pegs in a square world.  Why not curved walls, like those of Guadi's Casa Battlo, or circular windows like the port windows on a ship? Why should we not pass from one room to the next through arches that look more like tree branches than the post and lintel entrances everyone else walks through?

 
I do not want this kitchen entirely, as I imagine a kitchen that is open with lots of counter space in the middle for sitting around with friends.  But I love this stove that leads up to a window letting natural light in.  The sink (which looks out into the garden like ours does at home) is to the right of the stove and is embraced by a long, tiled counter top. It looked so clean without any dishes piling up on it. Almost the entire kitchen is tiled, which I would imagine makes it that much easier to clean. I can hear Phil laughing now :)

You are all free to visit for Friday fogatas as soon as it is built.  You can join us for summer ritual Friday fogatas at the little casita now!